


What Pleases You

by jesstiel (jseca)



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Banter, Fluff, Gen, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, falling in love at the coast, jaskier and his purple prose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-08
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:20:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22174687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jseca/pseuds/jesstiel
Summary: “Well, it’s just – we were on the brink of finding a dragon.  You had Yennefer in your grasp – or perhaps you in hers, it’s difficult to tell, sometimes.  Adventure, peril, romance!  And.. you walked away.”“You asked me to,” Geralt says, like it's that easy.--Now With Chapter 2: They Actually Get To The Coast.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 73
Kudos: 1780
Collections: Best Geralt, witcher





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Can you imagine, though? Geralt, Jaskier, the coast. If only he'd agreed.

Here’s the thing: Geralt’s life, up until the whirlwind intrusion of ice blue eyes and a flurry of strings, had been fine. Gory, bloody, thankless, yes, but fine. All he needed was Roach, a monster carcass, and a pouch full of coin to last until the next hapless bastard came along with a job. His life was fine, so he cannot decide what it is that consistently leads him to following along with a bard prone to whimsical fantasies. 

“Everyone needs a break, you know,” Jaskier had pointed out as they trudged a new worn and beaten path, to which Geralt had nought but huffed in response. “Even inexhaustible brick-houses such as yourself. You can’t tell me you don’t tire of it, occasionally? Day in, day out, covered in monster guts and a lack of self-respect.”

Geralt narrows his eyes.

“Covered in women, too, that part isn’t so bad, I suppose,” Jaskier interjects on his own monologue; conversations within conversations, as he’s wont to do. He glances over to Geralt, scoffing when he sees signs of a temper starting to build behind his eyes. He’s known him too long; they’re tells that would be nigh-on imperceptible to most. A face carved from stone, they would say.

 _Have_ said. 

Many times.

Jaskier knows otherwise. Knows Geralt can _feel._ Even if the emotion he’s presenting is ‘I feel like punching someone in the gut, and you’re conveniently at arms’ reach.’

“It’ll be _good_ for you, I promise. When you take in that first breath of salt-infused fresh air, you’ll feel a peace like no other. Some of those knots in your back might even unravel, who’s to say?”

“You speak as if I’ve never been to the coast before.”

“Ah! Well! That’s news to me. See, we’re bonding over this journey already. Truth be told, I can’t imagine it myself. Geralt of Rivia, the beach. A juxtaposition if ever there was one.”

“You never mentioned beaches.”

Jaskier swings to face Geralt head on, at that, a devilish glint in his eye that Geralt had quickly learnt to be wary of. “Well, you can hardly blame me if I’ve entertained the idea of watching you sunbathe once or twice,” he grins, winking lasciviously at Geralt and swinging his lute round to strum a few sensual chords. 

“ _Glistening abs,  
Hair shining like silver,  
The Witcher’s delightful  
In his shirtless splendour – _hey, any space on Roach up there, per chance? My feet are starting to ache something _awful -,”_

“No.”

“Right, right, that’s fair.”

For a minute there’s silence, save for the sound of footsteps and hooves through the dirt. Uncharacteristically, it’s Geralt who breaks it first.

“I won’t be sunbathing.”

“Of course! No sunbathing. No nudity at all. Propriety is the keystone of this trip.”

“Hm.”  
  
\-----  
  
 _“Composing your next song?”_

_“No, I’m just… trying to work out what pleases me.”_

It’s dangerous, daring; a hair’s breadth from the truth. Perhaps he’s _hoping_ to be understood, and as such isn’t entirely sure whether he’s disappointed or horribly relieved to see that Geralt’s expression is unreadable, as always. What he would give to hear the thoughts hiding behind unwavering golden eyes.

“Well,” Jaskier says once the silence has won out, pushing himself up from the (frankly, _very_ uncomfortable) rock. “I suppose I’ll leave you to i-,”

He stills at the hand that grabs gently at his wrist, halting him in his step. 

“.. Geralt?”

There’s an agonising pause, then, where Geralt doesn’t turn his head, doesn’t say a word; Jaskier stares, caught in limbo as he waits for some sort of explanation, the reason as to why Geralt’s fingers are burning into his wrist.

“… Let’s go,” Geralt says, and the world releases a breath. Or, at least, Jaskier does. His wrist is freed as Geralt turns just enough to look him in the eye. And then his brain catches up.

“What? Go?” He can’t surely mean – but Geralt is huffing, seconds away from rolling his eyes to the sky and then it’ll already be too late; he has a window of seconds to ensure Geralt does not change his mind. “Yes! Go!” He grins, elation singing through his veins at the realisation that somehow, Geralt of Rivia has chosen _him._ It could be that they’ve stepped into a parallel world, and that would be just fine by him. 

Still.

“.. Are you sure?” _Don’t mention Yennefer, don’t give him cause -_

“Don’t make me regret this,” Geralt says as he stands, which is good enough for Jaskier. 

“Right, can’t be having that. I’ll start gathering our things!”  
  
\-----  
  
“We’re leaving. I thought you should know.”

“Is that so?” He thought Yennefer would be more surprised. At least act like it, damnit. “Already?”

“The job ended with Borch’s demise.”

“That’s not the only thing left to stay for, you know.” Yennefer smirks, a gleam in her eye as she brushes her hand down Geralt’s cheek. “And yet here you are, walking away with your bard.”

Geralt huffs, turning his head from her touch to convey his annoyance at whatever it is she thinks she’s insinuating. “Not ‘my bard’,” he mutters. 

“I feel like perhaps I should be jealous,” she says, wistfully. “But if that’s truly the path you want to take, well. I can hardly stop you.”

“Nothing to be jealous of, Yen,” Geralt says, but his heart’s not in it, and he doesn’t want to stop and take stock of exactly why that might be. Then again, this is Yennefer of Vengerburg he’s talking to. If he had anything to hide, it would be futile to even try, standing in front of her. She looks up, staring straight into his eyes, boring down into his very soul. Geralt is nothing if not steadfast, and yet he finds himself fighting the urge to take a step back. It’s unnerving.

“Hmm. Believe what you like, Witcher. Just try not to hurt him in the process.”  
  
\-----  
  
They’ve all but got a routine down for camping, the years they’ve been travelling together. Geralt stalks off into the night to procure them their meal, while Jaskier sets up the campfire and warms himself while he waits. He often finds himself idly composing, the night sky and its bountiful stars his muse. He’s come up with some of his best material under the glow of the moon, hopeless romantic that he is. 

Self-proclaimed, of course.

“What if it was Yennefer?” Jaskier calls out as he spies the silhouette of Geralt returning through the trees, fresh kill in hand.

“What?”

“Yennefer. What if it was her, and you, and the beach? Would you get your kit off then?”

“Jaskier.”

Jaskier laughs to himself, shaking his head. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding.” Geralt looks over midway through preparing their meal for the fire, narrowing his eyes. “I am! Although, you know, I feel like I’m not off base.”

Geralt doesn’t bother dignifying that with a response. Jaskier hums to himself for a moment, brushing his fingers up and over the strings of his lute to fill the silence. 

“I must say, Geralt, I can’t help but be.. surprised,” he says, a minute far too long to let a word go unspoken. 

“And why’s that?”

“Well, it’s just – we were on the brink of finding a dragon. You had Yennefer in your grasp – or perhaps you in hers, it’s difficult to tell, sometimes. Adventure, peril, romance! And.. you walked away.”

“You asked me to,” Geralt says, like it’s that easy. His tone is so matter-of-fact, yet leaves Jaskier _almost_ lost for words. 

“I – well, yes, I did, but can you blame me if I didn’t expect you to actually _agree?_ ” Jaskier sets down his lute to allow for wild, exaggerated hand gestures. “A Witcher doesn’t simply.. give up!”

“It wasn’t giving up. My employer perished, and my contract ended.” Geralt shrugs. “Regrettable, but not ‘giving up’.” He looks up at Jaskier, yellow eyes catching him where he sits. “I didn’t expect you to fight me on this. It was your idea.”

“I’m just trying to figure you out, Geralt! I feel like I’ve read the whole story, only to discover ten more chapters lying hidden at the end of the book. It’s… well, it’s fascinating, to tell you the truth. Nobody has ever inspired me like you have.”

Is that.. a softening, in Geralt’s eyes? Or simply a trick of the flickering fire reflecting in his pupils?

“I don’t know,” Geralt says after a beat. “A.. break will do me good.”

“Well, now you’re just quoting me.”

“Perhaps you talked some sense, for once.”

“Or perhaps you’re avoiding talking about what’s actually on your mind.”

“I could turn back anytime, Jaskier.”

“Noted! ..Noted.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit: they go to the coast now! head on over to chapter 2 <3


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I imagine you’d rather I was one of your Countesses,” he starts, “if it’s as romantic as you say.”
> 
> “Oh, don’t be silly, Geralt. I know who I’m here with.” Jaskier grins, plops himself down onto the cool grass. “Come, sit with me.” A beat. “And don’t read too much into that.”

Upon arriving at the coastal town the next afternoon, their first port of call is to find an inn with a good meal, a bath, and revellers with coin. Not that Jaskier mentions the latter point to Geralt until they’ve arrived, handed Roach off to the stable boy, and made their order, of course. No point souring the mood before even an hour has gone by.

“My good lady, have you need of entertainment on this grey, overcast day? It seems your clientele here could do with some merriment.” With one arm lying heavy on the bar, Jaskier motions ‘round the inn with his flagon, where everyone is having a perfectly normal day, actually. He raises the cup a touch in acknowledgement as it swings past his and Geralt’s table. Geralt rolls his eyes. Jaskier winks. 

“You implying something about my hospitality?” The barkeep crosses her arms, raising a sharp eyebrow. Jaskier can’t help but exhale a nervous laugh.

“No, no, and may I add what a lovely tavern you have here? Simply splendid. The, uh, cobwebs. Are a nice. Touch.” He huffs out a breath to dislodge some out-of-place hairs, gallantly hiding any sign of faltering behind what he knows to be his best charming grin. He stays strong, even under the heat of a look the likes of which even Geralt might falter.

“I’m taking half what they give you.”

“Sold!” Jaskier doesn’t hesitate a second longer, bounding out into the middle of the floor and swinging his lute round with a flourish. He can feel Geralt’s judgemental stare burning a hole in the back of his head, but he’ll change his mind when Jaskier offers to pay for their room with his earnings. Probably. Besides, this is what he _lives_ for. An audience that doesn’t yet know him, but by the virtues of his talent and charisma soon will. 

Starting with _Toss a Coin_ seems almost cliché, but it’s a crowd-pleaser and a call-to-action all in one. Plus, Jaskier has little to no sense of shame, or of selling out, so start with it he does. He even gets to gesture dramatically toward Geralt when his name comes up, and the Witcher must have gone soft, since he only looks mildly irked by the whole thing. Sure, the hand supporting his cheek looks as if it were supporting the weight of a boulder, and his narrowed eyes, even from across the room, convey a sense of resigned apathy, but he’s also _tapping his fingers to the beat_ . Likely he doesn’t even realise it himself, will deny the whole thing if pressed later on, but Jaskier sees it. He _sees it._

By the end of the song, his lyrics are ringing ‘round the tavern from tens of voices; he repeats the chorus a few more times than strictly necessary to encourage maximum audience participation, and to encourage said audience to dig deep into their pockets. It’s nice, he thinks, to see coins glinting up at him from the floor after a performance, and not bread. For sure, bread has its merits as a form of payment (or a form of performance reviewal); fresh bread can even be pillowy soft, when it hits, and a fantastic source of sustenance when no other option makes itself known, to boot. But it can’t quite compare.

_Focus, Jaskier._

He performs four more songs over the course of the next half hour, with a ratio of 1:4 ballads to upbeat crowd-pleasers. There’s a moment where he considers throwing in _Her Sweet Kiss_ as his ballad of choice, but then – no, it’s too raw, too open. Geralt is not stupid. He would immediately catch on, and it’s too early in their coastal rumpus for that. He settles for broken hearts that belong to subjects who are far more generic and ambiguous, even if a part of him, at the back of his mind, chastises himself for not being brave.

Can it be called cowardice, if it’s in the name of self-preservation?

“Not bad, eh?” Jaskier grins as he slides into his chair post-performance, a coin pouch in one hand and two beers clutched in the other to accompany the hearty meal waiting for him at the table. “One for you, one for me.”

“Thanks.”

“The barkeep was so impressed, she gave us a room for the night free of charge!” Jaskier takes a sip of beer, pauses. “.. She might have mentioned that help with a local monster problem would help sweeten the pot, but that’s hardly -,”

Geralt sighs. “Figures. So much for a quiet getaway.”

“Oh, I’m sure it’s hardly urgent. We can take a day to ourselves, at least. Forget about monsters, and violence, and gore.” He takes a moment to dig in to his _delicious_ smelling meal. “When was the last time you truly took a break away from it all, anyway?”

“Long enough ago that I can’t place it,” Geralt says, and shrugs. “I hardly think about it. It’s the life. A Witcher’s means to survival.”

“So you say. But, Geralt, what if you simply… didn’t. Anymore.”

Geralt raises an eyebrow - in question or out of incredulity, Jaskier’s not sure. Either way - 

“A mere thought experiment! What if you just packed it in? Lived a more normal life?”

“And where would your inspiration come from then, I wonder _?_ ” Geralt says from behind his flagon. 

“Oh, I’m sure I could find something in the way Geralt of Rivia hangs up his swords and, I don’t know, takes on a mundane job. Buys a house. Keeps some chickens.”

“Chickens?”

“I can see it! I think Roach would like them. Besides, I feel like a cat would be too on-the-nose, with those eyes of yours.” Jaskier’s brain catches up with his mouth, then. “And, hey! I hope you know that I don’t just enjoy your company because of your innate talent for inspiring my writing. I would be right there with you, you know, handing out chicken feed - which isn’t _actually_ something one would pen into a song, I tell you! Not glamourous at all. But I would do it! Because you’re good company, even if your heart is hidden behind walls and walls of… gruff.” He motions up and down at his table companion and his unreadable expression to emphasise his point. “Besides, I didn’t think you were all that enthused about my drawing inspiration from your conquests.”

Geralt huffs out a small laugh, at that. “It has its benefits. I don’t get turfed out of nearly as many inns, nowadays.”

“ _Well._ I think that’s the closest you’ve ever come to telling me you enjoy my songs, Geralt! This is a proud moment for me.”

“I didn’t say that.”

Jaskier is undeterred. 

“I’ll take what I can get!” He grins, marking this day as a real keystone in his and Geralt’s friendship. “Besides, if you truly didn’t enjoy them, you wouldn’t be here. With me.” He deliberately moves ‘til their gazes meet, feeling a sudden surge of what might just be liquid courage, or maybe a true moment of daring. 

Geralt pauses. Holds Jaskier’s gaze.

“I suppose you’re right,” he says eventually; cautiously. Jaskier smiles a gentle smile in return, even as he feels his stomach turn upside-down. Time to break the tension he’s self-manufactured.

“Right! Come with me. I need to show you something.”

He’s up and away before Geralt can utter even a syllable of protest; doesn’t have to look back to know that he’ll be following behind.

\-----

This. _This_ is what Jaskier came for. A perfectly temperate breeze dusted with sea salt whispering through his hair; the soothing, metronomic crash of waves dashing the cliff-side below; the sun beginning its descent from the heavens to bring in the night. He closes his eyes, flings out his arms in a pure, joyful celebration of _life._ Wine, women, money; these are all wonderful in their own right, of course, but there’s no muse quite like nature’s own picturesque vistas.

“It’s rather romantic, don’t you think?” Jaskier grins, tilting his gaze back to Geralt. Geralt, who’s… probably enjoying this too, in his own, stoic way. He’s staring off into the sunset, Roach’s reigns held loosely in his hand. Jaskier thinks he may even have caught the tail end of one of Geralt’s patented ‘tug of the lip’ smiles, before he had spoken. “The setting sun, the crashing waves..”

“If this is the start of another composition -,” Geralt starts, though there’s no bite to his words. 

“No more composing today, Geralt, I promise. I’m simply committing it to memory for _tomorrow’s_ compositions.”

“Of course.” Geralt sighs, but he’s smiling again, so Jaskier knows he’s still in the clear. For now. 

There’s a moment of quiet between the two of them, the calming sounds of nature talking for them. A rarity indeed, and even rarer that Geralt should be the one to break the silence.

“I imagine you’d rather I was one of your Countesses,” he starts, “if it’s as romantic as you say.”

“Oh, don’t be silly, Geralt. I know who I’m here with.” Jaskier grins, plops himself down onto the cool grass. “Come, sit with me.” A beat. “And don’t read too much into that.”

“I won’t,” Geralt says as he takes Jaskier up on his offer, folding himself down onto the ground.

 _Unfortunate,_ Jaskier certainly does _not_ think. 

There absolutely must be something in the air, Jaskier thinks, for Geralt to be so acquiescing and tolerant; first their earlier conversation in the tavern, and now this. Most days he would have been snapped at a hundred times already. All part of their dynamic, of course; Jaskier pushes, Geralt.. pushes back. Jaskier gets them into all sorts of trouble, Geralt gets them out of it. It makes for wonderful writing material.

Except for once, he reminds himself, new adventures from which are born new compositions are not the goal here. The goal is. Well –

“Isn’t it nice, though? To spend time simply _being_ , unburdened by monsters or politics or _destiny._ ”

“I suppose. I hadn’t really thought about it.”

“Is that so? I find that difficult to believe, you know. I sometimes can’t help but wonder if you accepted my offer as an easy out.”

Geralt shifts uncomfortably at the turn in conversation, his hands pressed tightly onto his knees. “This again, Jaskier?”

“Well, you know. You’ve got a lot to get away from.” Geralt scoffs, at that. “I can’t see you running into your Child Surprise all the way out here, for starters.”

“Destiny seems to have a way of fucking people over no matter what,” Geralt returns mildly, as if he’s contemplating the idea of the Child hiding down by the rocks in waiting, or something equally absurd.

“Consider destiny on hold, then.”

“That’s awfully bold of you.”

“I’ve stood in the face of worse.” Jaskier swings his arms behind him, digging his hands into the grass and leaning back on them; makes himself comfortable before looking over to Geralt. “I’m serious, though. Destiny is paused while we’re out here. I’ve decided. You deserve that much. And maybe you think the same, since you agreed to come out here in the first place.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

“Cryptic as always, Geralt. Talk to me, come on. There’s no better setting for a heart-to-heart.”

At least this time he can’t get cursed by a djinn as a result of trying to get Geralt to open up. Hopefully.

“Mm,” Geralt hums softly, staring off into the distance. “There’s a part of me that reckons I must be mad. Anywhere you go, trouble follows.”

“Part of my charm,” Jaskier mutters, trying not to be offended even as he inwardly acknowledges that Geralt possibly, _maybe_ does have a _modicum_ of a point.

“Despite that, you can be annoyingly persuasive.”

“.. Thank you?”

“I have a lot on my mind, you’re not wrong. Out here, though, it does seem to have quietened to a degree.” He huffs, as if forcing himself to keep talking. As if he hasn’t already said more today than he’s said to Jaskier in, perhaps, the entire course of their friendship. Certainly not anything with so much weight to it. 

“Sounds like you’re already feeling the benefits of sitting out with the sea breeze and a good friend,” Jaskier says, smiling. “Even if you refuse to stop insisting that said friend is one big nuisance.” 

“Oh, make no mistake, he is.” Geralt shifts a little, fixes his posture. Stares out into the pink-purple-orange horizon as the last inches of sun sink below the surface. “And yet, here I am,” he murmurs.

Jaskier blinks in surprise; can’t help but stare in mild shock at Geralt being so.. open. When Geralt looks over after more than five seconds have gone by with no rebuttal, no witty rebuke - Gods, he actually _laughs._ A sweeter sound was never heard. Jaskier could write a million songs on the back of that one laugh alone. 

“Catching flies, Jaskier?”

He shuts his mouth so fast that there’s an audible _click._

“Look, in the end, it won’t matter. Destiny has a habit of catching up, like it or not. Whether it’s now, or whether it’s in years to come.”

“So enjoy the time you have _now_ , while it’s leaving you be!” Jaskier pleads, turning and placing a warm hand on Geralt’s arm. As tactile as he is, he doesn’t often allow himself the simple pleasure of touching Geralt beyond, perhaps, a friendly punch to the bicep. Geralt has never exactly been the type to encourage such behaviour, and Jaskier _does_ understand boundaries, it turns out. But the rules feel different out here, somehow. “Just.. _live.”_

There’s an agonising moment that lasts perhaps a second, perhaps an hour, where Geralt says nothing; doesn’t acknowledge Jaskier’s hand or his words. But eventually, he looks over to his travel companion and tugs his lips up for a split-second in what might just be a smile, before raising himself back up off the ground. He reaches down to offer Jaskier his hand, pulling him up with graceful ease when Jaskier clasps it firmly.

“Let’s head back. Sleep will do us both some good.” He swings himself up onto Roach’s back, considers for a second, and then, in what might rank as his kindest gesture of the day, turns to offer his hand to Jaskier a second time.

\-----

The room they’ve been given has two beds. 

Jaskier can’t help but feel a twinge of disappointment.

Still! He’s not entirely deprived, given how Geralt has no qualms getting into the bath with him still in the room. _Sunbathing? I barely knew her._

“Stop staring,” Geralt murmurs, a rumble deep in his chest. Jaskier balks.

“Y - your eyes are closed!”

“Still.”

Jaskier scoffs, muttering a perturbed ‘ _witchers..,’_ under his breath, then freezes as he remembers their enhanced hearing a split second later. He glances back over to Geralt - _not_ staring - 

“Hm,” Geralt huffs, but he’s smiling. The warm water (and the flagon of ale he’s holding loosely over the edge of the basin in one hand, no doubt) is clearly making him more agreeable. 

“Tell me something,” Geralt says, breaking the silence for the _third_ time on their trip, and yes, Jaskier is keeping count, because Gods if it isn’t something to treasure - “how _do_ you spend your time, when you’re not tailing me like a lost puppy?”

That’s - well, difficult to comprehend, truth be told. First there’s the shock of Geralt _asking_ him something about his _life_ , totally unprompted! Unheard of!! He’s also _naked_ whilst he’s asking it, which is completely derailing and unfair, and then there’s the cherry on top that is the insult tagged on at the end there, demeaning and entirely untrue -

“Well, you should know that my world doesn’t revolve around you, Geralt, first of all, so there’s that. I live a rich, varied life, even when you’re not there to see it!”

“So you claim.”

“For good reason! I’ve made quite a name for myself these past years, travelling the continent and playing for peasantry and monarchy alike. I’ve made friends, enemies, lovers, seen the best and worst that this world has to offer. All the world’s a stage! .. That’s good, actually, I should write that one down.” He takes a drink, points an accusing finger towards Geralt. “And I know what you’re thinking - it’s all because I followed you. You’re hardly the only thing I write about, you know! I write about wars, nature, lovers, their angered husbands - a vast breadth of topics before even _reaching_ Geralt of Rivia.

… Still. Of all of them, you’re the one I come back to the most, I admit. There’s a pull to your dark and dramatic lifestyle that can’t be denied. Probably why my songs about your exploits are the most well received. The people want danger, heroics, violence! And doesn’t that make us a truly _fantastic_ team? My songs, your exploits? I’ve always thought so.” He pauses once he realises just how long he’s been talking un-interrupted, and glances up. Geralt is simply watching, an agonisingly neutral expression masking anything he might be thinking or feeling. “.. Don’t you?”

“You could be more handy with a sword.”

“Well, that’s just _lovely,_ Geralt. Forthcoming with your thoughts, as always.”

“Some truth in your lyrics might not hurt every now and then, either.”

Jaskier sputters at the true disrespect he’s receiving on all sides from Geralt right now. “Here I am, giving you the inner workings of my mind, and yo -,”

Geralt stands. Jaskier’s voice catches in his throat.

“ -- I do believe I’ve completely forgotten what we were talking about.”

Geralt chuckles as he wraps his towel around his waist. Damn it, but the man is almost certainly taking advantage of the effect he knows he has on poor, lesser mortals.

“You’re like a statue, you know,” Jaskier says, unbidden, tongue loosened by his own drink. “Carved expertly from granite. Lacking in the required sensuality, perhaps, but certainly not in musculature.” He swallows, unable to stop himself from talking. “Something made to be admired.”

“People aren’t usually so poetic about it,” Geralt muses as he goes to sit on his bed. 

“‘Poetic’ is kind of my thing, I don’t know if you’ve noticed.”

“Mm. Occasionally.”

And they’re back.

“Look, would it kill you to spare _one_ kind word for my work? I know you don’t ‘do’ emotions, but we’ve known each other for years. It would be nice.” 

Jaskier can’t help but flinch when Geralt rises and moves to his side of the room, at that. It’s always impossible to tell from his eyes what his intentions are - he could as much mean to hug him as strangle him at any given moment. What he doesn’t expect, then, is - 

Geralt leaning so he’s at equal height with Jaskier. Two large hands bracketing the sides of his face, warm (warmer still, from the bath), calloused, gentle. 

“I enjoy your singing, Jaskier.”

His heart floods with a warmth he’s never known.

“I enjoy your company.”

Had he been standing, he would not be anymore.

“You are worth more to me than you know.”

 _Gods bless this coastal trip._

Of course, Jaskier is nothing if not adept at running his mouth at completely inopportune moments.

“.. More than Yennefer?”

It’s a mistake, a _stupid_ move, the reason that he loses the warmth of Geralt’s hands and has to watch as he retreats back to his bed. And yet, more than anything in the world, he _has to know._ There might not be another time he can ever breach this subject, and it has _plagued_ him for days, weeks - 

_I’m weak, my love, and I am wanting -_

Geralt sits heavily, takes far too long to think of how to phrase his thoughts. He’s vulnerable, letting someone in like this - and wearing only a towel, no less. “Yennefer is bottled lightning. Destruction, danger. She taps into the darkest parts of me and draws them forward.” He sighs, not used to speaking so much, and so openly. “You.. make me want to be better.”

“The more boring option, of course,” Jaskier says, trying to laugh but ending up with a choked exhale, instead. “The people want drama and violence, remember? It’s no surprise. It’s intoxicating; addictive.”

“Unhealthy.”

“You enjoy it, though.”

“It clouds my mind. When she’s around, I lose my senses.”

“.. And when.. _I’m_.. around?”

“.. I regain them.” Another sigh. “I feel clearer-headed now than I have for weeks.”

“I did tell you the sea breeze would do you good.”

“You know that’s not what I mean.”

“I know.” Jaskier smiles, despite himself. “Gods, Geralt but it’s so _good_ to hear you talk like this.”

“I wouldn’t get used to it.”

“Oh, I’m savouring it while I can, mark my words.” He pauses, idly tapping his fingers on his kneecap as he digests all this new information. “An interesting situation we find ourselves in, hmm? Yennefer and myself, polar opposites, and yet equally important to one Geralt of Rivia in vehemently different ways. Despite that, I can’t help but bring to mind one thing that sets us apart.” Jaskier looks up, catching Geralt’s eyes and determinedly _not letting go_. 

He can smell the sea-salt on the air gently cascading in through the window as he says:

“You chose to be _here._ ”

“That I did,” Geralt murmurs.

“If that doesn’t count for something, I don’t know what could.”

Every word has a weight to it that Jaskier cannot measure. The air is thick with it. Thick with the humidity and the condensation from the hot bath, too, which doesn’t help matters; the gentle breeze can only cut through so much.

But then - 

“.. I’m going to go check on Roach,” Geralt says, which is frankly ridiculous in every sense of the word; it’s a completely obvious avoidance tactic, for one, after they had been doing _so well_ , and Geralt is in a _towel,_ for Gods sake, he can hardly leave the room like that.

“You - what?” Jaskier splutters, feeling as if he’s just had a bucket of cold water dumped over his head. That will _not_ do. Not now. He pushes himself up from the bed, stalking across the room to where Geralt is already reaching for the door.

Before he can stop to think, he grabs Geralt’s wrist. An echo of the recent past. 

It has the desired effect: Geralt halts, turning to look back at Jaskier. He even has the gall to look _confused_. 

“Geralt -,” Jaskier starts, but for once finds himself utterly lost for words. Which, of course, leaves him with only action as a means to sorting this whole thing out. An action that he perhaps hadn’t planned on making quite this early on in their trip - but then, he is, after all, the proprietor of the perfectly timed romantic gesture. He’s sung it a thousand times, would have said until this moment, right here, that he had _lived_ it a thousand times more. 

Perspective is a powerful force indeed.

He understands, in these few seconds, that he had not lived it out even _once,_ not until now as he gently tugs on Geralt’s wrist; leans forward; claims Geralt’s lips with his own.

Geralt hesitates for one, two seconds -

\-- wraps his arms tightly around Jaskier.

The world exhales.

\-----  
  
Their next evening goes like this:

It’s like camping, but not quite; a small fire quietly burning atop the sand and some driftwood, not for food for once, (they’ve already had their fill at the tavern) but for ambience. Geralt had scoffed at first, but Jaskier _insisted_ , and so it glows under the light of the stars. 

Jaskier gently strums away at his lute, daring to sing _Her Sweet Kiss_ within earshot of Geralt, not entirely sure whether he can actually parse the lyrics, and still not entirely sure whether that’s what he wants. Geralt, after all, is standing metres away at the foot of the ocean, letting the water lap at his legs as he silently stares into the blue beyond. He’s left his armour behind in favour of lighter pedestrian clothing that far better suits the sea-shore, and the mood that Jaskier is endeavouring to create.

Jaskier silences the strings with one hand, carefully placing Filavandrel’s lute down in the sand and pushing himself up. He treads over to Geralt, places a hand on his shoulder. If he notices how Geralt immediately relaxes under his touch, he doesn’t mention it.

“Quite thought provoking, isn’t it?” he murmurs, following Geralt’s gaze out into the ocean. “What must lie beyond. Beneath. Beautifully horrifying.”

Geralt blinks as if bringing himself from a trance, at Jaskier’s voice. Jaskier smiles hesitantly, at that, and turns to face him.

“Not nearly as beautiful as what’s directly before me, though,” he says, all sickly-sweet and flowery. Geralt laughs softly.

“I feel most would choose ‘horrifying,’ first.”

“Oh, no. Geralt, you are - transcendent. Luminous. Bewitching even when you’re covered in blood and guts. People who are terrified by you - they don’t know a damn thing.”

“Are you going to sing those praises to the masses, as well?” Geralt asks, tilting a sarcastic eyebrow even as he raises a hand to Jaskier’s face; caresses his cheek with an idle thumb.

“Those are mine alone,” Jaskier all but whispers. “Call it selfish, if you wi-,”

Geralt’s soft lips catch the final syllable from the air, claiming it as he claims Jaskier. A hand runs through silver hair, clasping at the nape of Geralt’s neck; an arm winds around Jaskier’s waist, pulling him closer still as they kiss.

The only thing that could have a hope of slipping between the spaces between their bodies is the sea-salt breeze as it whistles softly through the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To those who read the first chapter and commented - thank you so much, you were a huge part of motivating me to write <3 <3 The boys deserve this, honestly. Let me know if you enjoyed, and if you too do not know of any scene where Geralt shouts (???) at Jaskier (???) and breaks (???) his heart (???!!!), and only know of coastal rumpuses and falling in love.


End file.
